Diary of Blood
by MadameFanzel
Summary: Maureen's worst fear is about to come true. Joanne is about to discover her darkest secret. Will it be more than the lawyer can handle? ... Mojo three-shot. Rated T for self-harm. Sort of OOC for Maureen, but it kind of depends how you look at it. **Trigger warning for cutting.** Quite a bit darker than the average Mojo fic, but I hope you'll enjoy! Thank you, Jonathan Larson!
1. Chapter 1

[Author's Note/Disclaimer: This is a little three-shot that is quite a bit darker than the average Mojo fic. I'd love to get some feedback, so let me know what you think! I do not own RENT or any part of it, and I don't intend to claim any of it in any way. Thank you, Jonathan Larson!]

Diary of Blood

Chapter One

_"It's not actually a blade," _I reason, as I examine the object in my hand. _"It's just a little piece of ceramic from a plate that broke a while back; so that can't be as bad as a real blade. Can it?"_

Is this even bad? I don't know anymore. Everybody says it is, and they all seem to really believe it. I used to believe it. And when I stopped I used to try to tell myself that I still did, but lately this seems too right to possibly be wrong. Yet something inside of me- way deep down- does understand how scary it is that I've held on to this sharp, jagged, little, white triangle for weeks with this exact purpose in mind for it. But I push this part of me down, instead focusing on the anger I feel toward myself for being too weak and fearful to use a real blade.

_"If you're going to do this, can't you at least do it right?" _I criticize myself. But I know the answer is that I can't. Somehow, I'm not too far-gone to grasp the concept that, with a blade, I'm very capable- once I get myself going- of doing more damage than I know for sure that I want to do.

So I get creative. First, it was the little words cut into my arms and legs with a safety pin: words that I now whisper to myself as a reminder, in case I'd somehow managed to forget that they are true.

"Ugly…Worthless…Weak…Pathetic…Unlovable…Untalented…Insane…Hopeless…"

Do I really believe all of these things? Sometimes I'm not sure. When I was writing them I did.

Next, I tried burns. Nothing too bad- just little burns on my fingertips with the curling iron. Just little ones; just to see how it would make me feel. I tried it twice, but it just didn't work. It's much better to write out the words.

Some people write about their feelings in a diary, and it helps them cope. Really, that's not much different from what I do: I cope by writing about my feelings- on me.

After I gave up on the burns and went back to cuts, I tried using a lot of different things: tweezers, a sharp edge of broken plastic, the hook of a metal hanger; it didn't matter much what it was- just as long as it wasn't so sharp that it made me start thinking about consequences. I do not want to die. I just sometimes need a little help coping with life.

Really, I make it sound worse than it is. I only do this on the really bad days. I only do it when the crippling insecurity that I spend so much time and energy trying to bury gets hold of me, and I don't know how to tell someone that I need help, much less whom I would tell. My family? They've all but disowned me at this point. My friends? There's no way on earth I would let them all in on this secret. Besides, they would only try to drag me along to one of those Life Support meetings, where they would proceed to try to force me to reveal this part of myself to even more people. As if they have any business in knowing how I feel about myself.

And then there's Joanne. I love her, so shouldn't I be able to talk to her? I wish I could. But she would finally leave me for good once she saw how weak and pathetic and insane I am. And I'm trying to put that off for as long as possible. Besides, with my natural tendency toward being a flirt, I'm already treading on thin ice in the Joanne department.

I only do this maybe once a month, which really isn't so bad. Is it? And I mostly blame this little habit- bad or otherwise- on the fact that I'm so terrible with words.

I can't tell people how secretly uncomfortable I am with being touched; so I let them do whatever they want, and then, when I'm finally alone, I sob uncontrollably for a long time before I write 'weak'. I can't tell people that the stupid anti-anxiety medication prescribed by the stupid psychiatrist Joanne made me see just makes me feel sick instead of doing any good, and I feel like I'm slowly falling apart while I wait for it to start helping; so I stare at myself in the mirror for a long time, pondering the fact that I'm so broken that this medicine can't even fix me, before I write 'insane'. I can't tell people that I've never- in my whole life- believed the phrase 'I love you' when it was used in regards to me; so I use the phrase and mean it completely, while ignoring it when it's directed toward me, before I write 'unlovable'. I can't tell people that I feel scared and alone and helpless and confused; so I lie and pretend that everything is okay, before I write 'hopeless'.

While I'm ruminating on all of these things, I lower myself to sit on the cold, white tile of the kitchen floor, realizing that I'm shaking so badly that I can barely manage the maneuver. I observe the fairly subtle contrast of my ivory skin against the floor tiles with that feeling, which, in me, passes as something almost akin to admiration. But that's before I sternly remind myself that there is nothing beautiful about pale skin that can only burn instead of tanning. I can't believe I was about to think otherwise.

I think instead about the reasons I'm doing this tonight: the fight with Joanne two days ago, along with the fact that we're still barely speaking to each other; the rehearsal for my latest performance piece last night that I just couldn't seem to get on track; the call I received this morning informing me that I lost the role I did three auditions for and wanted desperately; the disaster of a performance protest I tried and failed to write this afternoon. I feel tears begin to sting my eyes, fanning the flames of my anger and self-loathing.

_"Of course you're crying: you're too weak not to. You're pathetic. Why do you even try? You're useless anyway. You're never going to be good enough." _I reach up my left hand to wipe away the tears, making sure to dig my nails into my cheek hard enough to draw blood. The pain brings on more tears, which feel like fire as they trickle down into the gashes I've created. In spite of the pain, this amount of which would usually be enough to scare me out of doing any further damage, all I can think is, _"I hate myself."_

I try the phrase out loud while examining the pale, tender skin on the inside of my left forearm. "I hate myself." One drop of the cocktail of blood and tears drips from my cheek onto my arm. For some reason this image sets me off, and I scream it: "I HATE MYSELF!" The phrase has become a declaration rather than an experiment.

I grip the piece of ceramic in my right hand and drag the sharp, broken edge across the skin of my left arm, just below the inside of my elbow. I wince as I both see and feel the skin breaking, but I don't stop until there are bloody markings all the way down to the heel of my hand.

The pain is almost unbearable now. I drop the piece of ceramic and survey my work. For a brief moment I feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, but it's short-lived. The pride quickly morphs into terror, and I soon find myself lost in the throes of a panic attack. I vaguely hear a knock at the door.

Of course, I don't bother to acknowledge it. I'm in no state to do so, anyway. I cradle my limp, ravaged arm in my lap, staining my sheer, white tank top as I do. I'm beginning to feel dizzy: whether from the pain or the fear or the blood loss, I couldn't say. I hear the knocking again.

After another period of time- it could be a minute, it could be an hour- the phone rings. It's on the counter just above the spot in which I'm sitting, and I wait for the ringing to give way to the voicemail recorder, somehow curious despite my pain to see who's on the other end of the line. A few moments later, the voicemail kicks in, and I hear: "Hey, Maureen. I don't know where the heck you would be right now besides lying on the couch, so if you'd open the door so I don't have to dig through my purse for five minutes looking for my key that would be awesome…"

I freeze mid-sob. _"She's home. She can't be home! It's only five-thirty! She said she was working late tonight-"_

There is a sigh on the voicemail recorder: "Fine, Maureen. You win…" I hear her set down her briefcase and whatever else she has with her, but she doesn't hang up. It also sounds like she hasn't set down that monster of a cordless phone she carries all the time. She's still hoping against hope that I'll pick up and tell her she doesn't have to bother with her search, which is what I usually do.

_"She said she _assumed _she'd be working late, you moron. And she's about to walk in here and discover that you're completely insane."_ I know even before I do it that it is a horrible idea, but I answer the phone anyway. I have no idea why. "Hello?" I rasp. I can scarcely believe the sound of my own voice. Not only is it raspy from my hysterical sobbing, it cracks on the second syllable of the word. On top of these things, my breathing is utterly ragged.

"Maureen? Honeybear, what happened? Are you okay?" Hearing her voice and knowing how close she is to discovering my secret sends me spiraling into another panic attack.

"Nothing happened," I try to assure her, noting the panic in my voice, which I know she'll detect as well. I picture her searching faster and faster for her key, moments away from walking in and destroying the delicate balance I've so carefully created. "I just woke up. I don't know how I managed to sleep through the phone-" I stop. The key is in her hand now. I can tell because in the background and can hear her picking up her stuff. "Don't come in!" I shriek.

I hear the key turning in the lock and the door creaking open. And in a moment of sheer hysteria I pick up the piece of ceramic and begin shredding every inch of exposed flesh I can find.


	2. Chapter 2

Diary of Blood

Chapter Two

Hearing my heavy breathing and strangled cries of pain, Joanne makes her way to the kitchen in mere seconds- seconds that I've spent mercilessly lacerating my trembling body. I don't think or care about writing words. I don't think about anything. I just cut- faster, deeper- not thinking, not feeling, not caring about consequences. I am aware only of three words: _"I hate myself."_

Vaguely, I register screaming. That must be me because Joanne never panics when she knows she's the only one even remotely capable of being calm in a certain situation. I must be the one sobbing and hyperventilating, too. It's funny that I can't tell, but all I know now is blood and pain and cuts. More cuts. I can't stop.

I wouldn't have noticed Joanne come in; but I do, simply because she kneels down beside me and wrenches the blood-soaked piece of ceramic out of my hand, throwing it across the room where I can't get to it. I scream without knowing why.

Joanne stands up and gathers as many paper towels and kitchen towels as she can. In the time it takes her to do this, I begin clawing myself furiously with my fingernails. I continue this destruction as Joanne tries her best to use the towels to staunch the heavy flow of blood pouring out from my mangled anatomy and begin cleaning and bandaging the significant damage I've done. At the same time, she's saying something to me that I can't make out over my hysterics and trying to pry my hands away from my mutilated body. But then she does something that I wouldn't have expected, had I been mentally capable of formulating expectations at that point in time.

She takes my blood-drenched and limp wrists in her hands and forces my arms around her in a hug. Still hysterical and out of my senses from losing so much blood, I dig my nails hard into her back. It's only when I register a sharp, pained inhalation that I realize what I'm doing. I pull away from her as quickly as I can manage, screaming 'I'm sorry!' over and over again.

Joanne places one hand on my upper back and the other on my stomach at the bottom of my rib cage, forcing me- firmly but gently- to lie down on the floor. Without knowing why, I fall silent. "It's just fine, Honeybear. You didn't mean it, Baby Girl, and I know that. I just needed a way to get you to stop, that's all," Joanne tells me gently. "Now, I need you to lie still for me for just a minute. I'll be right back, Honeybear." As if she's cast a spell on me, I suddenly feel paralyzed. All I can do is lie here on the cold, hard floor and cry.

True to her word, Joanne quickly reappears, carrying with her all of the first aid stuff she is able to find in the bathroom, plus all the towels. Suddenly, as Joanne repositions herself beside me, I come to my senses and realize the full extent of what I've done to myself. I also suddenly feel completely naked in my little, low-cut boy shorts and sheer tank top. I'm immediately gripped by an overwhelming feeling of shame and terror: that I'm capable of this; that she's discovered my secret; that I'm going to die; that she'll be afraid of me; that she'll now hate me as much as I hate myself; that she'll never forgive me; that she'll never trust me again; that she'll hurt me; that she'll take this habit away from me because she won't understand that making it hurt on the outside is the only way I can make myself stop thinking about how much it hurts on the inside; that she'll hurt me; that she'll tell people about my secret; that she'll hurt me.

Within a half hour, Joanne has managed to significantly slow the bleeding out of the worst cuts, most of which are on my legs. I spend those minutes crying; watching in terror as her hands come into contact with my mangled, trembling body; flinching away from her touch; and crying harder when this action doesn't dissuade her from continuing to touch me. Instead of stopping she just murmurs to me soothingly while she continues. But I don't listen. All I know, and all I can think, is that she's going to hate me now that she knows my secret. And that she's going to hurt me.

Now that the worst cuts have been addressed, Joanne starts to clean the other cuts- the ones that are more insignificant, as well as the larger ones that have already started to clot on their own. She stands up again to get one of the towels wet; and although I've managed to refrain every other time she's done this (except, of course, the first time), this time, when she isn't looking, I dig my nails deep into the skin of my right hip. It's like I can't even control my own body anymore.

Joanne turns back to me at the same time I feel blood starting to flow from beneath my fingers. "No, Maureen," she says firmly but quietly as she sits back down and pulls my hand away. She cleans the little punctures I've just made and covers them with one of those big, 2" x 3" Band-Aids. After that, she wipes the blood from my fingertips. As Joanne hesitantly begins cleaning the cuts on my stomach, she says, "Maureen, I'm going to ask you some questions, and I need you to tell me the truth. Can you promise me that you'll do that?"

In response, I flinch hard and whimper as she touches the sensitive place a couple inches in from my hipbone. A fresh round of tears stings my eyes. "I'm so sorry, Honeybear," Joanne whispers. "I didn't mean to: I just have to clean you up, Honey, that's all. You're safe, Baby Girl. I promise I'll keep you safe."

"Joey," I whimper. It's the only thing I can think of to say. As is to be expected of me, I don't know how to tell her about all my fears.

"I'm right here, Honeybear. And I'm going to do everything I can to take care of you- I promise you that."

Out of nowhere, panic overtakes me again. "Joanne, you can't tell anyone!" I all but scream.

"You don't have to worry, Honey," she tells me as she helps me sit up. "Come here, Mo," she coaxes gently.

I hold Joanne's hand and let her lead me to the bathroom, where I sit on the countertop and let her begin her work on my right arm. I don't know if she's trying to hurt me, or if she can't help it because of the fact that I already hurt myself. All I understand right now is that it hurts when she touches me. But it also hurts when she doesn't touch me.

While she continues to bandage my right arm, I reach over and brush the fingers of my left hand across a deep cut near my wrist. Under my fingertips, the cut burns worse than my fingertips ever did under that stupid curling iron. "Careful, Honey. We don't want it to start bleeding again," Joanne reminds me, moving my hand away and covering the cut with gauze. Her voice is soothing, and I'm no longer quite so afraid of her touch because my little experiment has proven that the pain is all my fault- not Joanne's.

After a minute, she softly asks, "Maureen, Honeybear? Will you promise me that you'll be honest with me when I ask you these questions?" I nod, though I refuse to look away from the lingering hand on my right upper arm. I just can't help it: I'm still afraid. Deep down, I know I always will be.

She drops her hand for a moment, and I look up. "Maureen, I know this might seem ridiculous, but I really need you to look me in the eye and answer me out loud… This just isn't something either of us can afford to mess around with." The look in her eyes tells me that she understands how much she's asking of me.

"I promise," I tell her, barely loudly enough for her to hear. She's just finished my right arm, and now Joanne starts on my chest. Immediately upon my feeling her touch, all the muscles in my stomach clench, and I double over feeling like I'm about to vomit. _"At least I finally got her to stop touching me."_

When the wave of nausea passes, I sit up a bit straighter and look to Joanne with pleading eyes. "Please trust me, Maureen," Joanne whispers. "I will never, ever hurt you. I promise you that." Very slowly, I nod.

Joanne draws close to me again, beginning this time by tenderly placing her left hand at the center of my back and rubbing slow, gentle circles. In spite of this valiant attempt at providing me a sense of security, when Joanne's right hand softly comes into contact with my chest, I flinch hard and collapse against the woman who is the source of both my terror and my protection.

After a minute, I hear Joanne sigh. "Okay, Honeybear," she says, "I guess my first question has to be…" she sighs again, "Maureen, were you trying to kill yourself?"

"No, Joey," I breathe, "I swear I wasn't." She interrupts the circles on my back to stroke my hair once, which tells me that she believes me. Finally satisfied that she's done what she can for the cuts on my chest, Joanne grabs a clean towel and begins to address the gashes on my face. After cleaning the rest of my face, she examines my left cheek.

"Is this the first one you did?" she asks in a whisper.

"Yes," I answer, equally quietly. "Why?"

"It's already starting to scab over- just barely." For a moment, we both just look at each other. Then, very, very slowly- to make sure I'm not too afraid of it- Joanne leans in and places a tender kiss on my cheek, just barely off to the side of the scratch marks.

She next begins work on my left upper arm, asking, "Maureen, have you ever done this before?" When my only response is to burst into tears, I know she understands that I have.

Joanne stops her work and very carefully cups my cheeks in her hands. "Maureen," she says earnestly, "I won't be upset with you. I promise. I just need to know the truth." There is a long silence as I stare with apprehension into her warm, loving eyes.

"Yes," I squeak. Joanne nods. Of course I have. She drops her hands to my knees.

"How often do you do it?"

"Not that much…" I answer slowly, struggling to find the words I need to describe this thing- this habit- that I've never discussed with anyone before. "Just… Just on the really… really bad days… About once a month, I guess," I finally mumble.

"Why do you do it, Honeybear?"

_"Finally," _I think, _"an easy question." _"Read my arm."

"What?"

"Read my arm," I repeat simply, extending my left arm to show her. I watch sheepishly as Joanne's eyes widen and fill with tears, and she brings a hand up to cover her slightly opened mouth. This all happens in a matter of seconds as she reads the shaky block letters that I cut into my arm more than two hours ago: 'I HATE MYSELF'.


	3. Chapter 3

Diary of Blood

Chapter Three

Joanne carefully wraps my words in gauze, and while she does I explain, "There are a lot of reasons I do it, but that's mostly why I did it this time."

Finally done bandaging nearly every inch of my body, Joanne leads me to our bedroom. She crawls into the bed and pats the spot next to her. I gratefully accept it, the exhaustion of my ordeal beginning to come over me. I curl up half beside her and half on top of her, trying to ignore the searing pain that this causes in the entire left side of my body. She rocks me back and forth, rubbing my back with her right hand and stroking my hair with her left. It feels comforting, and I finally allow myself to relax into her and savor her protection.

"Maureen," Joanne whispers after a while, "what are the other reasons you do this, Honeybear?" A tear rolls down my cheek, and she gently brushes it away before pressing a soft kiss into my hairline.

"Well," I hesitate, unsure of how to make her understand, "it's… I mean, a lot of it's just… um… It's- it's just because it's just hard to talk to people."

"What do you mean, Honeybear?"

"Just… um… When I get really… upset, or whatever… it's just too hard for me to talk about it; I just can't do it. So, instead of that I just do the cuts because sometimes if I make it hurt on the outside I stop thinking about how much it hurts on the inside…" I can tell by the look on Joanne's face that her heart is breaking. "And… It, um… Well, never mind."

"And what, Maureen?"

"Well, I was just… It's kind of like a diary. Just, instead of writing how I feel on paper, I… I write it on me."

With these words hanging in the air, we sit in silence for a long time, until I feel Joanne pulling herself out from under me. "Joey," I whimper pitifully, "please don't leave; I'm sorry!" I'm both feeling and sounding more desperate by the second. "Please don't hate me, Joanne! I'm so sorry!"

She stops moving and strokes my hair a few times to settle me down. "Shh… Shh… It's okay, Honeybear…" she whispers, "Shh… I'll be back in just a second."

While she's gone, I try to curl up on my side. But everything hurts too much, so I resort to just lying on my back and spreading my arms out to the sides. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths. I don't open them again until I feel something on my left arm. I look over to see that Joanne is back and has a Sharpie marker in her hand.

"This is my diary," she tells me. And I watch as she uses the marker to write on the gauze that covers my cuts- my words, my diary of blood- her own words: 'I LOVE YOU'.


End file.
